


Papers

by WeeklyReportWithJamesCheetham



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Post-Duel, What is Hamliza, how to write something that isn’t burr pov, kinda canon i guess, kudos to anyone who saw what I did there, what is writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-14 18:36:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14142081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeeklyReportWithJamesCheetham/pseuds/WeeklyReportWithJamesCheetham
Summary: A challenge reward for this really really cool youtuber y’all probably know who’s on Amino





	Papers

Eliza sighed and stood up. She was tired of moping about her loss; it was neither beneficial nor pleasing think about. She closed her eyes and contemplated.

After a few moments of thought, she found herself conjuring up the image of a grinning Alexander Hamilton. She winced at the thought of his death and stared at the General for a few moments. 

What was she going to do about him? She would have to make sure that he wasn’t ever forgotten, for that would’ve been what he wanted. She also knew that Colonel Burr was going to pay for this murder, that vile— she decided to ignore her thoughts of revenge at the moment, for she had to get back to deciding on Hamilton— but how was she to do this? Eliza thought for a few moments longer, before the answer suddenly came to her out of nowhere. 

The papers.

Of course.

There were papers that were crammed into drawers, there were papers that left ink stains on Alexander’s hands, there were papers that would keep him awake for several hours in the night, there were papers that she had helped him write—-

She immediately dashed over to the cabinets near the desk and pulled open drawer after drawer. She looked for what she desired, found what she needed, and took out stacks of paper and tossed them onto the floor. 

Eliza then proceeded to admire the little bits treasure that were strewn across the rug. She picked up a sheet of the parchment and traced her finger over her husband’s words, mouthing them to herself as if in a trance. After reading a few passages, she confirmed that she was, indeed, not hallucinating, for she remembered reading these very words all those years ago when her Hamilton had approached her with the request— or had she offered to write for him? She was uncertain; some of the details were blurred together. Eliza continued to trace her finger across the fading black ink, picking apart the passages that were in her own handwriting. After a few moments, she sighed and set the essay back onto the floor. 

Closing her eyes, she conjured up the image of the red-haired man she had loved, taking in his smile and his shining blue eyes. Betsy Hamilton began to recollect all of the times when he would arrive home weary from a day’s work at the firm; she remembered the days where she would scold the man for not being stern with the children at appropriate times; the days when the Carribean Immigrant would write her letters about the war and of yearning to be with her; the days when the two of them would spend time on their own and discuss over a wide number of topics together. 

She smiled in memory of them, and bundled the stacks of papers together. She heaved them onto the table, before bending down to collect the fallen scrolls that had eluded her grasp. She set them down, took a few moments to admire the collection of documents, before taking out a new leaf of paper and inking in the name of one John Church Hamilton. Eliza paused afterwards, frowning to herself. 

This couldn’t possibly be all of the papers that Alexander had written— she would, perhaps, have to scavenge the house for more— but that was not what mattered as of right now, she had plenty of time for gathering the material in order to preserve the man’s legacy posthumously. She continued to write the letter to her son, which would instruct him to publish the letters and essays of his father’s writings in a biography. There were times when she would pause, for she would find herself distracted by the sight of her husband’s inked-in paragraph that were resting only a few inches away from her. Eventually she prevailed, and, with her own completed masterpiece in hand, she proceeded to slide it into an envelope that had been placed conveniently by her.

Eliza sealed it, slid on her shoes and opened the door. Now was the time for her to deliver the letter, and the time to work would begin immediately afterwards. She took a deep breath and strolled out into the bright sunlight.

**Author's Note:**

> I never thought I would be writing Hamliza,,, Look at where we are,,, look at where we started,,,


End file.
